“ I broke the fangs of the wicked and snatched the victims from their teeth.”
Sam crouched in the gloom and waited for night to fall. He shifted restlessly, his body keen to be doing something — anything other than wait. Waiting, however, seemed to be his lot during daylight hours. When your days were largely empty of anything other than meditation, eating and training, the excitement and action that came with nightfall were a welcome change.
He was beginning to drift into his calm, inner meditative zone again when the building he was sheltering within started to shake violently. Instantly alert, Sam sighed and stood with one fluid motion, prepared to move if the building collapsed suddenly. He eyed the shaking walls warily, shifting his feet easily to accommodate the bucking floorboards. Most were already cracked and warped — testament to the amount of ground movement they had already been subjected to. Earthquakes were becoming more and more commonplace these days. They had been a fairly regular occurrence since the Rapture but lately, they had increased in frequency and power. Sam was almost blase about them now but still treated them with a certain respect. Although not as susceptible to physical harm as normal humans, he could still become trapped under tons of rubble.
The building continued to shake, the tremor building in intensity. Sam watched curiously as a long crack appeared in the wall opposite, spreading like the tendrils of a questing weed. A crash sounded somewhere from a back room and his hand unconsciously slipped down to grip the haft on his Wakizashi tucked into his belt. When nothing emerged, he relaxed. Probably something shifting — not that there would be anything left on the walls. Any objects or photos that had once adorned the interiors had long since fallen down. If this kept up, though, he might have to move sooner than anticipated… and he was loathe to step out into daylight.
The building had once been a clothing store although there was precious little evidence of stock left now. Most of it would’ve been picked over by survivors. All the racks now lay on their side, strewn around and stacked haphazardly on top of one another. The serving counter was split down the middle. Anything remaining was now covered by a fine layer of ash which also served as an indication of recent intrusion. Sam had cased the place carefully before making it his base. No tracks in the ash, neither human nor demon, meant that no one else had been here for at least a few days.
More cracks burst into existence in the ceiling above his head. White plaster drifted down onto his hood which he brushed off carelessly. Then, without warning, the tremor stopped. The quake was over. An eerie silence filled the room — the calm after the storm. It didn’t last for long though; the building began to creak alarmingly as it settled into its new position. Sam waited it out, ready to dart away if the need arose. Thankfully it didn’t, and he settled back down into a crouch, as still as one of the mannequins that littered the floor.
Night had come now and his enhanced senses detected the inevitable changes that came with it. The moon, now the color of blood, had made an appearance from behind the almost solid barrier of clouds that swirled above the shattered town and a red stain slowly flowed into the room via various cracks and openings, filling Sam with a strange warmth and feeling of power. It was a thrilling sensation but, equally, one that filled him with disquiet: A reminder that the Earth, especially at night, now belonged to his kind. Most especially his father, the devil, the Prince of demons — and all those who served him. His kin, but also his sworn enemy.
The night, however, only belonged to the devil for a finite period. Soon enough, change would come and Satan would once again be banished to whence he had come — Hell. It was small consolation to Sam, but at least it gave him some hope. And some hope, as his master Hikari had always said, was better than none.
Right now, the darkness belonged to them. He reached out with his senses, feeling the demonic presence. He could sense them emerging from the rift between Hell and Earth, centered around the desecrated churches, their auras a hot glow of hatred in his mind. They were around but no-where in the immediate vicinity. He’d chosen this spot with care, well away from any church.
Relieved, he tried something else, something that he had become more adept at in the intervening years since the Rapture and his time spent looking after Grace. He could now sense the distinctive minds of normal humans, their presence softer and less intense than those of demons. They were much closer, in a nearby warehouse he’d identified a few days earlier. They were stirring, becoming more active, a sign in itself that all was not well.
Sam could draw only two conclusions from the activity. Either they were preparing to fight off an imminent demon attack or — much more sinister — they were in league with the demons and were planning their evening abominations.
Unfortunately, the latter explanation was the only conclusion he could draw with some certainty. Experience dictated that he could no longer reveal himself when encountering humans for the first time. The reception he received, almost without exception, was poor to say the least. His disguise — if you could call his hood a disguise — didn’t last for long and the truth soon emerged. What he’d learnt long ago was that people always judged him before they knew him. Always. He just didn’t bother anymore. Instead, he liked to observe without being seen; assessing, planning, debating the best way his unique skills could be used to help those who had been left behind during the Tribulation.
In the case of the people in the warehouse — he’d observed them some days earlier and realized the dreadful truth. They were in league with the demons. There could be no doubt about it. It wasn’t just that though. They had descended into the very depths of human depravity, preying on their fellow humans. Feeding on them. Cannibalism. It had only taken him this long to act because there were too many of them and he needed to plan carefully. Some of them were armed with iron, which was the only weapon that could harm him. He would have to be careful. He had enough self-awareness to realize that while he was somewhat immune to conventional attack, he certainly wasn’t invulnerable.
He rested then, settling into the lotus position, conserving his strength for the fight to come. Entering a meditative zone, time lost all meaning, although he was careful not to let it turn into sleep. Sleep led to dreams and his dreams were all about his mother. He really didn’t want to witness her suffering again or dwell on his failure to find her all those years earlier in Hell.
Hours passed like minutes and then, abruptly, it was time. Quickly, with a seamless transition from meditation to full wakefulness, he stood.
He dropped his pack on the ash-covered floor. He’d have to come back for it later. Adjusting his swords at shoulder and hip, silent as death itself, he moved towards the entrance of the shop. The door was ajar and all the windows were shattered, so he was careful to check his foot placement. The crunch of glass could easily alert someone and he took care as he moved past the doorframe, hugging the outside wall and keeping to the shadows. Outside, he crouched down next to the cracked facade of the building and scanned around.
The street looked like a caricature of a post-apocalyptic landscape. His night vision enabled him to see clearly — almost too clearly, giving him an odd sense of exposure. It looked like any post-Rapture town that he’d had the misfortune to pass through: cars and buildings covered in a fine coating of dust; some buildings lying in piles of rubble, others burnt husks; the street cracked and buckled and on it, cars scattered haphazardly. He knew he was in Ohio, high up on the central plateau, and as far as he knew, in the county of Richland. As for which town — he had no idea. The only indication he’d had was a sign as he entered town, lying half-buried in rubble, unreadable now thanks to bullet holes, caked ash and grime and graffiti. He’d tried to wipe it clean with spit but failed to generate enough saliva. His mouth was often dry these days. He couldn’t actually remember when he’d actually had a drink of water. Days? Weeks? Luckily, his demonic constitution meant that his physical needs weren’t the same as humans but he still missed the little pleasures. What he’d give for a nice, long, refreshing drink of cool water. Bliss. Fresh water was scarce these days. The rise in global temperatures meant that many sources had dried up completely, and those that hadn’t were often contaminated. He’d even heard rumors that the ocean itself had turned to poison, though he was yet to see it for himself.
As for food, well, he just didn’t seem to need much of it, which was just as well since there seemed to be hardly any around. Since the Rapture, the Tribulation Earth had become more hell-like. The more hell-like it became, the stronger Sam began to feel — almost as if the very environment was feeding him and giving him strength. He didn’t quite know what to make of that. A part of him felt grateful for his demonic heritage that enabled him to survive in such harsh conditions, but another part resented it as a reminder of how he was different to every other human he encountered.
Sam missed eating but not as much as he thought he would. It used to be one of those comforting habits, something he did because he had to, not because of any great desire. Saying that, he did miss Aimi’s cooking, the flavors and textures. Her company as they ate.
At the thought of her, he unconsciously reached up and fingered the cross around his neck, his mother’s cross — the one he had given Aimi. She was never far from his thoughts and he often wondered what she would be doing now. Would she be too busy enjoying paradise to remember him? Was she even now looking down upon him, watching over him or had she already forgotten him? He hoped not because he would never forget her. Never.
He let the cross go, not for the first time wondering why it no longer burnt his fingers. Bibles, crosses, hallowed ground — his demonic heritage meant that the touch of anything holy still caused scorching pain to sear through his body. The only exception seemed to be this cross. Why, he didn’t know, but it provided some small comfort. And comfort was a precious commodity these days.
He shook his head to clear it, chastising himself for his self-indulgence, only too conscious of what the consequences could be for his lack of attention. It was only then that he detected the demonic presence. His heart skipped a beat at the shock of its proximity — it was far closer than it had a right to be. Sure, his mind had been elsewhere, but he had never slipped up this badly before. He could feel the growing hatred of it, its mind a hot coal of boiling anger. And something else. Something was different about it, something he had never encountered before.
It was nearby. If his senses could be believed, it was across the street, just around the side of the next building, a shattered and crumbling Seven 11. Angry with himself but also slightly intrigued, he darted across the covered street, keeping low, his feet barely stirring the thick layer of dust and debris as he passed.
He reached the Seven 11 and, making absolutely no sound at all, moved cautiously around the side of the building. He found himself in an alleyway about thirty feet long. The light was poor, shadows clutching eagerly to the walls, just another patch of darkness.
His enhanced vision cut through the shadows easily. Towards the far end of the alleyway, crouched low at the base of a barbed wire topped metal fence, was a creature. From this distance, it looked like a Lemure — the almost mindless demon foot soldier — but its mind tone told a different story. It didn’t appear to have seen him and probably couldn’t sense him — he was becoming rather adept at concealing his mind from his demonic brethren.
He moved, a blur to any normal vision, crossing the distance between him and the demon in less than two heartbeats. As he moved, he drew the shorter of his blades from the sheathe tucked into his belt; the Wakizashi — its shorter length perfect for close quarters fighting. Sam silently glided around behind the Lemure. He grasped its disgusting mangy hair with one hand and drew the head back, sliding his blade against its neck with his other hand, ignoring its surprised struggling and the sound and smell of burning as his iron blade made contact with demonic flesh.
His black demon eyes met those of the Lemure and he saw a flicker of realization dawn. Wait! A flicker of realization? Lemure were essentially mindless, and yet this one displayed a sense of self. That wasn’t all — Sam could sense the disquiet and panic that had set into its mind. Something else too. It seemed like it… it recognized him, knew who and what he was. What was this thing?
He stared at it and it gazed back at him. It had stopped struggling now and had become calm, as if accepting the inevitable.
“What are you?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the greasy, foul smelling hair, ignoring the sharp stab of horns against the palm of his hand. The Lemure — or whatever it was — smiled at him, the lips peeling back to reveal the sharpened points of teeth glinting dully in the shadowy light.
Slowly, apparently to avoid antagonizing Sam, a disproportionately long arm moved up to touch the blade at its neck, its sharp talons clicking against the iron gently and lovingly as it completely ignored the sizzle of burning flesh that the contact caused.
Sam was aware that his mouth was hanging open in surprise like some dullard but he was unable to close it. This whole scene was so strange. This shouldn’t be happening. Why wasn’t he doing something? Saying something? The unusual and uncharacteristic behavior of this thing that clearly wasn’t just a Lemure had deeply unnerved him.
The Lemure’s eyes had not once left his own. It opened its mouth and something that Sam thought would never usher from it, did. Words, hissed out but recognizable.
“Your father sends his greetings.”